


Jarring Inertia

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [16]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Birthday Party, Blackmail, Creepy Slade Wilson, Day 3, Deal with a Devil, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Duke Clark Kent, Hand Jobs, King Bruce Wayne, Lord Slade, M/M, Manipulative Slade Wilson, Prince Damian Wayne, Prince Dick, Prince Jason, Prince Tim, Princes & Princesses, Protective BatBros, Royalty, SladeRobin Week, SladeRobin Week 2019, i mean not as creepy as he CAN get, uhhhh kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Nineteen years ago, the mercenary Slade Wilson came to the aid of King Bruce Wayne, a partnership that ended in the winning of the Great War. His price for this help? Someday down the line, Slade would ask the king a question, and the king would have to say yes.King Bruce, a man of his word, begrudgingly agreed.Prince Richard, now just celebrating his twenty-second birthday, comes face to face with the fact that even in deals he wasn't a part of, everything has a price.





	Jarring Inertia

**Author's Note:**

> SladeRobin Week 2019 Day 3: **"Everything has a price"** | Young Justice
> 
> So far my submissions for Sladin Week have been pretty...tame. _Nice,_ even. I assure you, the second half of the week is very much not that, so stay tuned if that's more your speed :)
> 
> And, as ever, I hope you enjoy!

"Hello, Richard."

The voice is, by this point, a familiar one. A deep baritone, the slightest rasp to it, a lilt of amusement or pleasure always in every syllable. Dick's gotten very used to the way his name sounds in that voice, either whispered or shouted, filled with laughter or irritation, a brief murmur or a drawn-out drawl. He probably knows everything about that voice by this point, every inflection, every twist and turn.

And goddamn if Dick wouldn't be perfectly happy to never hear it again.

Dick turns around, eyes flicking over the form of the large man in front of him. It's been about five months since he last saw Slade Wilson, the longest period of absence since the elder man started seeking out Dick's company about three years ago. For a while, Slade had kept quite close, much to his family's (and his _own)_ chagrin. Then one day, gone.

It wasn't unusual for Slade to leave Gotham, considering they all knew he got up to less than legal things in his time away, but he hasn't vanished for more than a month after he started talking with Dick.

Dick hates the slight relief he feels to know that at least Slade isn't dead, after all these months.

He looks...well, he looks good, Dick supposes. Dressed up in the typical clothes befitting a lord of his status, but with a couple irregularities that Dick knows are purposeful, are intended to draw the attention, to make sure all the people at court are aware that he's not _completely_ one of them.

Of course, they all know it. It's impossible to forget.

Slade's lips begin to curve upward, and Dick realizes he's been staring and saying nothing.

_"Prince _Richard," another voice corrects, cold and focused.

Dick startles and turns his head. He doesn't know _when_ Tim appeared at his side, but he must've spotted Slade's approach and moved quickly. Last Dick had seen, Tim had been on the other side of the room, talking with some of his friends.

"Of course," Slade murmurs, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment of Tim's words. He doesn't, however, break eye contact with Dick. "Apologies, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect."

Dick suppresses a snort. He opens his mouth to make some benign comment about safe travels and all of that until he can excuse himself, but Slade is speaking before he can.

"Might I beg a dance off of you, Prince Richard?" Slade reaches forward and takes ahold of Dick's hand, pressing a brief kiss to the back of it. "In celebration of my return, and your twenty-second birthday?"

"I don't think-" Tim begins.

"I must decli-" Dick begins.

Slade ignores them both. His light grip on Dick's hand tightens, and in one smooth move he draws Dick onto the dance floor and then pulls him into his arms, stepping effortlessly into the flow of the dance.

Dick can feel multiple pairs of eyes on them, and wonders if any of them are his father.

"You look as ravishing as ever, Your Highness," Slade tells him, and Dick wonders if he is only using the title in a mocking way now.

"Thank you, Lord Wilson," Dick replies. He can see that Slade's sharp blue eye is locked onto his face, but Dick keeps his gaze resolutely over the older man's shoulder.

"And a happy birthday to you," Slade adds.

"Thank you, Lord Wilson," Dick repeats, and he feels more than hears the low rumble of a responding chuckle.

It reminds Dick of how close they are to each other right now, how he can feel Slade's body heat, feel the motion as the man draws breath, see the tiny details in the simple designs of his clothes. It makes Dick's heart speed up a little. It feels dangerous. He _knows_ this is dangerous.

Life would be a lot simpler—a lot _better_—if Slade Wilson would just go away.

"You have a question for me," Slade says, and it's said so matter-of-factly that Dick can't help but look at him in surprise. Slade meets his gaze unflinching, steady and calm.

"Do I now?" Dick asks, raising an eyebrow. "And what question might that be?"

"You want to know why I was gone so long."

Dick laughs a little and returns his gaze to where it was before, over the man's shoulder. "I know why you were gone so long, Lord Wilson," Dick says dryly, lips quirked in amusement. "In fact I don't think a single member of this court is ignorant to why you were gone."

"Oh?" Slade prompts, and out of the corner of his eye, Dick can see the man's smile.

Dick hums and nods slightly.

"Do tell."

Dick's lips twitch. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes again. If the man wants to play oblivious then _fine._

"You might have a title now, _Lord_ Wilson," Dick murmurs, shaking his head, "but no one forgets who you were before the war. Who you _still_ are, the moment you set foot outside of Gotham's boarders. You were gone for so long because you were out there in the world doing the job you _actually_ enjoy, no matter how..._distasteful_ we might find it."

Slade barks a laugh at that. Dick adds, "Honestly I have no idea why you return at all; you have zero interest in being a lord, zero interest in life at court—you should do yourself—and everyone here—a favor and simply vanish."

"Your manners are certainly in full effect tonight, Your Highness," Slade says, but there's humor in his voice, his lips quirked in amusement.

"I do try," Dick drawls right back, and see _this_ is part of why being so close to Slade is dangerous—the banter, the easy way they fall into conversation, the way his heart speeds up upon receiving a quiet chuckle in reward to his comment. It's insanity. It's stupid as shit. And it makes no _fucking sense,_ considering that Dick would be so much _happier_ if Slade would just leave Gotham and never return.

The song ends, and Slade doesn't give Dick a chance to pull away before the next song starts and they're dancing again, slightly slower than before. Dick _really_ wishes someone would cut in, but he knows no one will—Slade can look quite threatening without even trying, and he's perfected the facial expression that would keep potential dance partners away.

Dick's told him _(exasperated, not enough irritation)_ to quit it in the past, to no avail.

"That isn't why I was gone so long, by the way," Slade murmurs after a little while.

Dick considers the obvious lead-in, and then sighs. "Alright, I'll bite; _why,_ pray tell, were you away from Gotham for five months, Lord Wilson?"

Slade's voice is a soft caress when he says, "Because I love the way you look at me when you haven't seen me in a long while."

Dick jerks back, but Slade's grip is solid enough to show he was expecting the motion, and Dick barely gets anywhere at all before he pressed right back in position, still dancing in Slade's arms.

"Pardon me?" Dick demands. His voice is far more breathless than he'd meant it to be, and his eyes desperately seek out his family in the ballroom. By this point, Tim _must've_ alerted Bruce to what is happening, even though it's true that Dick hasn't seen the king all day. Where is his father? Where are his brothers?

But Slade simply hums, low in his throat. Dick can feel the older man examining him intently, and then he says, "Come with me, Richard."

Before Dick can even begin to formulate a strongly worded _No,_ Slade has released him from the hold of the dance but kept a firm grip on one of his hands, leading him through the crowds. Dick considers pulling against it, but that would make a scene, and would be more trouble than it was worth.

Probably.

They end up on one of the small balconies off the side of the ballroom, one that looks over the large gardens outside the palace. Dick loves this one in particular, actually, because it gives the best view of the small village in the distance where Dick first met Bruce, sixteen years ago.

Dick wonders if Slade remembers him mentioning that fact so long ago and chose this spot on purpose, or if it is simply a coincidence. He was just a child when he shared that story, after all. He hadn't known a thing about Slade Wilson, only that a lord was offering him comfort when he was sad.

"Why are you-" Dick begins, but he cuts off with a startled gasp when Slade maneuvers him so that he has his back to the stone parapet, Slade's larger body keeping him there, one hand on the stone on either side of Dick's body.

Dick straightens, his pulse skyrocketing, and attempts to push Slade away. The man, built like a goddamn mountain, doesn't budge. Dick knows he can (_probably)_ fight his way out of this hold, but he doesn't want to _have_ to.

"Lord Wilson-" Dick tries, his tone perfectly controlled.

"Richard," Slade murmurs his name, and then his lips twitch up into a smirk, "you look _stressed."_

"And _you_ forget yourself," Dick hisses back, baring his teeth. "Get _off_ of me, Slade."

Slade's smile grows. "You know, the only time I can ever get you to call me by my given name is when you're all riled up."

Dick laughs incredulously, eyes wide. "That's not—that's not a _good thing,_ Slade! You shouldn't-" He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, and then pushes at Slade's chest again. Again, the man doesn't move.

"What do you _want?"_ Dick demands.

Surprisingly, Slade seems to take his question seriously. He watches Dick for a few long moments, eyes sliding across the prince's features, and then tilts his head contemplatively.

"What has your father told you about the Great War?"

For a second, all Dick can do is blink stupidly at him. The abruptness of the change in topic makes his head swim, leaving him confused and a little dismayed by how effortlessly Slade abandoned his question and his anxiety.

"I—quite a lot. Why?"

That's not, strictly speaking, true. Bruce doesn't like to talk about the War, too many bad memories. Dick has always tried not to press, because he can understand having things you'd rather no one pry at. Damian still struggles with that—apparently Talia al Ghul had no concept of keeping the horrors of war from children—but he's learning not to demand information about it from Bruce too.

Bruce has shared _some_ stories with his sons, of course. All mostly vague, the general outlines, the occasional details when Bruce doesn't even realize he's mentioned it until it's too late to take it back. In fact, most of the things Dick actually knows about the Great War (other than the things he's been taught in lessons) come from some of his father's closest friends, the other warrior lords and ladies of the court.

A couple stories Dick has of his father during the War come from Slade himself, when Dick was young and curious and Slade was amused and willing to talk.

"And what did he tell you about the end of the War? About my part in it?"

Dick frowns at him. Slade's part in the War is public knowledge, something that Bruce never _had_ to tell him about, it simply _is._ The same way everyone knows King Bruce Wayne and Duke Clark Kent are war heroes, men who did more to save multiple countries than anyone could ever imagine, everyone knows that the mercenary Slade Wilson came in at a critical time with his followers and was a driving force in winning a number of battles.

After the War, for his _valor and service,_ Slade was given a lordship, some lands, and quite a bit of money.

This is all a matter of public knowledge, more or less.

"You helped turn the tide," Dick says. He's confused, and he's sure it's clear in his voice. "My father was bracketed in and you gave him an opening that was critical to winning the battle, and then went on to fight for his cause in the battles that came after."

"I saved Gotham-" Slade begins to correct.

"Oh, don't overreach," Dick says with a snort, rolling his eyes. "You've done quite a lot for our country, but don't think for a moment that the winning of the War is anywhere _close_ to all on your shoulders."

Slade hums. He's smirking again. Dick tries not to wonder if that's because Dick is snarking back at him again, instead of just trying to push him away.

"Alright, then after I played a key role in winning the Great War, do you know what your dearest father gave me in reward?"

And Dick is right back to confused. "Obviously," he says, and doesn't like the way Slade's expression seems suddenly _mocking._ "You got paid quite a lot, have lands you now call your own, and—let's not forget—that fancy title at the front of your name."

Slade dips his chin in a nod. "Yes, I did receive those things. But that was _chump change,_ and completely unimportant to me at the time. So your father asked what I wanted for basically saving his life, and I told him that what I wanted was very simple—can you guess what it is?"

The man's voice has gone soft again. Dick wishes it wouldn't.

Their faces are so close together. Dick wishes they weren't.

Dick racks his brain, trying to think of something the mercenary known as Deathstroke could've requested from the king who was willing to grant any request, but he's drawing a blank. There's nothing specific he could've wanted, not back then.

He simply shakes his head, a small motion that Slade sees easily.

"I told him that one day, I would come to him with a question, and his answer would have to be _yes."_

Dick's breath catches. That is..._god,_ that is quite a promise to make. That can go so wrong, in so many ways—

"Considering the fact that my father is not an idiot, I can assume he attached some conditions to that little _reward_ of yours?"

Slade's smile is small and pleased. "He did. The question I asked him could not involve requesting soldiers to fight for me, nor could it be something that would endanger lives. It could not be asking him to kill someone, or asking his blessing for _me_ to kill someone." Slade pauses. "Conditions that made sense, and I could live with. So, we agreed."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dick asks, voice no more than a whisper. _Why didn't Bruce tell any of us this?_

"Because this morning, when I arrived back in Gotham, I went to the king and reminded him of the deal we struck, and then I asked him the question he would have to say _yes_ to."

Slade doesn't continue from there, and Dick presses his lips into a thin line. He could request more information, information that Slade so very clearly wants to share with him. Or, he could attempt to extract himself from this situation and go find his father, ask _Bruce_ to tell him what's going on, not trust the word of a man like Slade Wilson.

But frankly—_painfully_—Dick thinks Slade is far more likely to tell him the truth in something like this than Bruce would be. Bruce would obfuscate or simply shut him out, try to hide what he might see as a personal failing, no matter its impact on his children's lives. After all, he's never told any of them about this bargain. Why would he start now?

Slade, however, has never _actually_ lied to him. He's danced around some questions, given cryptic answers at times, but he's never _lied._

"Alright," Dick says evenly. He really wants to put some distance between them. He wishes Slade wasn't so _goddamn close._ "What did my father agree to, then?"

"Your hand in marriage, little bird."

Dick goes still. He meets Slade's sharp-eyed gaze, searches his expression for any sign of deception, any sign of trickery. But there is none. Slade looks pleased, but calm, very sure of himself. Like a predator who already knows he has his prey, and is unconcerned by any fight the prey might put up.

_Bruce has approved of a marriage between me and Slade Wilson._

The truth hits like a sack of bricks, and Dick's expression hardens. Slade's lips twitch in response, probably amused _(the bastard),_ and waits for whatever Dick's reaction to this might be. Between his arms, Dick feels very boxed in; probably a feeling he will continue to have for many years to come, if this truly happens.

_Married. To Deathstroke the Terminator._

"If you'll excuse me," Dick says, voice perfectly blank, even _cold._ "I think I'd like to have a word with my father."

Slade watches him for another moment, considering, and then steps back just enough for Dick to be able to slide by him, striding back towards the ballroom.

"See you soon, Richard," he hears Slade murmur before the loudness of the crowd swallows him up.

It doesn't take Dick too long to find his father, all things considered. A guard in the residence wing had taken one look at Dick's narrow-eyed, cold expression and stammered out that the king was in his private study with Duke Kent.

Dick heads there immediately, the path a familiar one, and his stride doesn't slow as he approaches, even when he sees the group of people standing outside the study door.

Along with the two guards stationed there as per usual, _Alfred_ is blocking the door, his expression set in determination as he looks at the three boys in front of him. Jason, Tim, and Damian look irritated, look like they've been attempting to gain entry for some time now, and Alfred has not moved an inch. The guard look nervous by the stare-down, and are purposefully not looking at any of the princes.

"-requested privacy, as I've already said," Dick hears Alfred saying as he comes within earshot. "The answer is not going to change simply because you boys _will_ it so."

The butler is the first person to notice Dick. He takes one look at the eldest prince's expression and his face tightens in sympathy and sorrow, which is all Dick needs to know about Alfred's level of knowledge in this situation. Dick can't tell whether or not he feels betrayed by the fact that the man kept this a secret, and decides it doesn't matter at all, not in the face of what Bruce has done.

"Dick!" Jason exclaims when he sees him, drawing everyone else's attention. "We were trying to talk to B but for some reason he's acting like-"

"Did you know?" Dick asks Alfred, not even glancing at his brothers. Jason falls silent at Dick's cold tone, eyes a little wide.

"Yes, Your Highness," Alfred murmurs sadly.

Dick just nods. "Let me by, Alfred," he says. "I need to have a word with my father."

For a moment, Alfred doesn't move, keeping his promise to the king to not allow anyone in. But he knows what's happening, he knows how much Dick's life is about to change, and he knows Dick deserves this much.

So Alfred steps aside.

"What the hell is going on?" Tim asks as Dick steps towards the door.

"By all means," the eldest prince throws over his shoulder, "come in and see for yourself."

Dick throws open the doors of the study, striding purposefully inside. Bruce is sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, his expression pinched, hands folded together tightly in his lap. Sitting across from him is Clark, looking equal parts exasperated, sad, and determined. Both men glance up when the doors bang open; Bruce's expression twists and then falls blank. Clark's grimace is pure sympathy.

"What the hell were you thinking?" is the first thing Dick can think of to say, staring at his father, at the man who swore to protect him and is now practically selling him to a murderer and a thief.

Bruce says nothing, the room remaining silent. Dick has no problem filling it.

"Did you consider the fact that there are actual human lives at stake when you make deals like that, when you bargain away literally _anything?_ Did you ever consider the impact this would have on your family? I am your _son-"_ his expression cracks, despair shining through the coldness he'd entered the room with, "-and you've tossed me to the wolves over a stupid and _thoughtless_ agreement."

"When the war ended, I hadn't yet adopted you," Bruce replies quietly. "I didn't know I would _have_ a child, let alone that this would be what he asked for."

"You're a _king!"_ Dick shouts. "Having a child was _inevitable,_ because you'd need an heir! It wasn't just _your_ life you were gambling with, Bruce! It was everyone in this kingdom, it was your future children, your grandchildren, all your descendants! You can't _make_ open-ended promises like you did, not with the power you wield, not when you already control so many lives."

"I'm sorry, but _what_ is happening, exactly?" Jason demands.

Dick smiles coldly at Bruce. "Oh, right, my apologies. None of you were made aware of what our father has done." He turns to his brothers then, taking in their confused and wary expressions. "At the end of the Great War, B made a promise to Deathstroke the Terminator—one day, Slade would ask something of our father, and the king would have to say _yes._ Bruce agreed, because he's _Bruce,_ and this morning Slade came knocking and made his request."

He looks back to his father then. It's subtle, but Dick can see the lines of tension in his body. Bruce is unhappy, not just with this conversation but with the situation as a whole, which doesn't do shit to make Dick feel better, but it's far better than Bruce being completely unrepentant.

The question is whether or not his father will actually _show_ he's sorry about all of this, or stick to his guns, as is his way.

"Can any of you guess what Bruce decided to give away?" His brothers say nothing. Bruce is perfectly still. "No? Well, _my king,_ why don't you tell them?"

No one moves. Dick holds his father's gaze, furious and desperate and betrayed, and maybe the tiniest bit _hopeful._ Because maybe Slade actually _did_ lie, maybe Bruce is about to explain the situation and show that Slade has twisted his words, that Dick _doesn't_ have to marry the man. Maybe Dick's life isn't falling apart right before his very eyes.

"Lord Wilson has requested Dick's hand in marriage, and considering I gave my word, I have agreed."

Dick's eyes slide shut, a quiet breath going out of him, that small ember of hope going out.

There's a moment of perfect silence, and then his brothers are all talking over each other, demanding answers, how Bruce how he could do this, searching for loopholes, calling for Bruce to break his word _just this once because Bruce this is your son—_

"I accepted a long time ago that I would probably have an arranged marriage," Dick murmurs. "I am the Crown Prince, I knew it was very unlikely that I would get to marry for love. But I trusted you to make a wise decision, to pick someone that maybe I could come to love, or even just care for, someone who would be my partner. This, Bruce? Marrying Slade? How can you do this to me?" He laughs a little, completely lacking in humor. "Frankly, how can you do this to the _kingdom?"_

"What do you mean?" Clark asks in concern.

"I _mean_ that I am the fucking heir to the throne, and so whoever I marry will become _king at my side._ This bargain doesn't just give him _me,_ Bruce! It gives him one of the highest positions in the fucking kingdom! Have you not-"

Dick cuts himself off as something occurs to him, something cold and afraid settling in his stomach. Bruce just stares back at him, eyes filled with sadness and regret that he'll never put voice to, and suddenly Dick can barely _breathe,_ because oh no, oh no, no no no no_ no NO—_

"Oh, you bastard," Dick breathes, eyes wide. "You can't be serious. You—wow. _Bruce."_

"Richard?" Damian asked hesitantly. Dick turns to look at his youngest brother, the boy staring back at him with deep concern, biting his lip in worry. Dick looks away again, unable to face Damian's fears right now when he's still wrestling with his own.

"You don't plan to give him that much power," Dick says hollowly. "You have to let him marry me, but you don't have to let him be king. There's a loophole for that."

"I don't understand-" Jason begins, but Tim interrupts him with a curse, sounding _angry._

"Bruce, you can't do this!" Tim says, firm and furious. "You're already giving him to a murderer, and now this?"

"Someone want to explain what the hell is happening _now?"_ Jason demands, his anger masking his fear.

"Our father is going to strip me of my title," Dick explains. He feels numb. He sounds numb. "I will still be a prince of Gotham, but he is going to remove me from the line of succession. And considering I'm simply adopted and me being Crown Prince was a loophole in and of itself, it wouldn't be too hard for him to do so."

He can't stand being in this room any longer, looking at a man he trusted with _everything_ now betraying him ever so thoroughly. Taking everything away from him. His future, his marriage, his family.

So he turns and heads to the door, not stopping when he hears Alfred and Damian call out for him, unable to stop walking because if he stops he'll break down. If he stops he'll have to face how everything has gone so very wrong so quickly. If he stops he'll have to acknowledge his new reality.

Instead, he heads for the rooftops.

* * *

It is—_thankfully_—a busy night out on the streets of Gotham, which means Dick has lots of opportunities to distract himself from his problems by punching criminals in the face.

Dick knows that Bruce isn't a fan of the fact that he goes out and does this, that he acts as a vigilante in the dead of night when he already has a full life as a prince, but the king certainly never says anything about it—he'd be a _hypocrite_ if he did; this is how he spent all his nights before becoming king, after all. Dick's simply carrying the tradition on.

He feels more at home, more _alive,_ doing this than he ever does acting as a prince of Gotham, anyway. He's grateful to Bruce for taking him in, don't get him wrong, and he truly loves his life. But his job as a prince is nothing compared to his job as Nightwing, nothing compared to the way he can help the everyday people by putting on a mask and taking down criminals.

He'd always known that one day, when he became king, he'd have to give this up. There was simply too much of a risk in it, risk he couldn't take once he became the head of a sovereign nation. He'd always figured he'd pass on the mantle, or encourage his siblings to go out and protect Gotham in his steed.

Well, it looks like he doesn't have to worry about giving this up. He's not going to be king anymore. He can keep being a vigilante.

Then something cold goes through him. What if he _does_ have to give it up? Slade will be his husband, will have a say in his affairs. And the man is certainly not one Dick would wish to fight on a constant basis—what if this is something Slade puts his foot down on? In an attempt to control him? What if he not only loses his title, his future, but his ability to help people, too?

He throws himself into a fight with a couple of smugglers down by the docks, trying to push all of that out of his mind.

He spends the next few hours picking a fight with every villain he can find, probably being a bit harsher than he typically leans towards. He can't find it in himself to care at the moment.

Around two in the morning, when everything seems to have died down, Dick sits down on a rooftop and looks out over his kingdom, mourning how his life has shifted so drastically in such a short period of time.

_Happy birthday to me,_ he thinks bitterly.

There's a soft touch of boots behind him and he immediately gets to his feet, turning around and pulling his escrima sticks from his back. But when his eyes land on the man on the other side of the roof he freezes in surprise.

"Nice night," Slade comments. He's wearing an odd uniform, one that Dick realizes must be what he wears when he's off acting as a mercenary outside of Gotham, but his face is bare.

Dick debates what to do for a moment—his identity is _secret,_ but this encounter certainly makes it seem like Slade already knows—before he slides his weapons back into their holsters, trying to relax his stance out of a fighting one.

"I suppose," he replies cautiously. "What do you want?"

"We never got to finish our _chat,_ Richard."

Well, that answers _that_ question.

Dick sighs and runs a hand down his face. He doesn't want to talk about this, least of all with Slade. His life is crumbling around him, and it is _all_ the older man's fault. He doesn't want to look at him or talk to him until he absolutely has to, and now the mercenary is coming to him when he's Nightwing, just one further violation—

"What else is there to say?" Dick asks dully. "I talked to my father, he is going to uphold the bargain. You and I will be married. You win."

Slade watches him for a long moment. "There's something else," he observes. "What happened?"

Dick laughs humorlessly. "Ah, right, _that._ Well you see, my father doesn't trust you or like you. He knows you're dangerous, and doesn't want you anywhere _near_ the throne of Gotham. So how about you guess what his solution is for that, considering he has to allow you to marry me, the Crown Prince?"

The lord's expression doesn't shift out of its blankness, but Dick can see the moment the man understands what he means; a slight tightening of his jaw, his eyes widening ever-so-slightly, and only for a moment.

"He's removing you from the line of succession," Slade voices, and Dick nods, grinning. There's not an ounce of humor in the look.

"Got it in one!" he says, chuckling. "So there you go, Slade. You win, you get to marry me. But I'm nobody now—you'll never be king."

They fall silent, just staring at each other; Dick with a smile he doesn't feel, and Slade looking like he's trying to figure something out that isn't quite clicking.

"I don't care about being king," Slade says slowly, his eye intent on Dick's face. "And frankly, neither do you—you should be thankful, I've gotten you out of a trying, lifelong obligation."

"I didn't _want_ out of it!" Dick shouts. "I-"

"Oh, _please,"_ Slade interrupts. "You can't honestly tell me you wanted to be king. Being king would mean giving up that freedom you covet oh so much, the freedom that allows you to be up here every night, helping people. You would _hate_ being king; it's never been something you wanted."

"But it's my life!" Dick yells. "It's _who I am,_ Slade! I am Bruce's eldest son. From age _six_ I have been preparing to take the throne. And now, in the course of just a few hours, that's all gone. I am not only being forced into a marriage I didn't agree to, but something I've spent _sixteen years_ preparing for has now been ripped away from me."

He scoffs. "So don't talk to me about what I would _hate,_ Lord Wilson, because I seriously fucking hate this situation."

Dick turns away from Slade, staring back out over Gotham. From this vantage point he can see the residence wing of the palace. There's a light on in Tim's room, and he can see more than one person inside through the curtains. He'll have to stop by before he goes to bed, tell his little brother to get some rest.

More than likely, Tim is going to become king. Because the throne is _definitely_ not something Jason wants—or is even close to prepared for—but Tim was the only son of a great house before his parents died and Bruce took him in; Tim's spent his whole life preparing for leadership, and his time as prince of Gotham has certainly been no different.

Jason will abdicate, and Tim will become king. It's not fair to either of them. It's certainly not fair to Dick.

He doesn't hear Slade approach, which is a surprise in and of itself, and he startles when a large hand grabs ahold of his bicep. Slade yanks him forward, pulling Dick along before he can right himself, and then pushes him back against the wall of the chimney, bracketing him there like he did earlier on the balcony.

"You can't tell me you don't want me," Slade growls. "You can't pretend you feel nothing here."

No, Dick can't. He can't pretend that being this close to the man doesn't send a thrill down his spine, makes his heart beat faster. He can't pretend that he hadn't missed Slade while the man was gone, just a little bit, and he can't pretend that he doesn't enjoy the man's company.

But he also can't pretend that he doesn't despise everything Slade stands for, how the _lord_ is just a mercenary in disguise, a man who—is soon as he leaves the boarders of Gotham—kills people for money and doesn't lose a wink of sleep over it. He can't pretend that the idea of losing everything he's grown up preparing for is worth having this man by his side.

It's not. It's not worth it. None of it is.

"It doesn't _matter,"_ Dick snarls in response. "What I _want_ is my title and my family, not to be sold off to a _murderer_ by my own father like I mean nothing to him."

Slade glares at him, teeth bared, but Dick matches the expression, just as furious.

When the older man jerks forward, Dick is expecting a punch of some sort, but instead Slade crashes their mouths together, one hand moving to tangle in Dick's hair and hold him in place.

Dick freezes in shock, his lips parting in a startled gasp, and Slade takes the opening to delve into his mouth, kissing him deeply and passionately. Dick pushes against the larger man, but even he can admit that it's halfhearted at best.

He's still angry, still _devastated,_ but he's been fascinated by Slade since he was a child, and for the past three years the lord has made his interest very obvious—Dick can't deny this feels good. And when Slade slots their hips together _just right,_ Dick can't deny the moan that rips from him.

Slade makes a pleased noise and presses even closer, until Dick can't feel anything except the other man, body surrounding him, pinning him to the chimney so thoroughly that Dick was sure he could go completely limp and yet still remain upright solely by the press of Slade's body on his.

Dick's been with people in the past—many times—but he's never felt _consumed_ by them like he does by Slade. Never felt the way he does now, as if he is he only thing important in the world, as if Slade has been _starving_ for him, needing him like he needs to _breathe—_

"That's it," Slade coos when Dick moans again. Slade grinds his large thigh against Dick's crotch, providing some much-desired friction. "Sing for me, pretty bird."

He should stop this, Dick knows. He _knows._ This isn't safe, it's certainly not _smart._ He knows better than to do this, make out with a killer on a rooftop in the remains of the life he's known.

But if life as he knows it is over, he supposes he might as well go out with a bang.

_(Heh.)_

Slade's free hand—the one not still grasping a fistful of Dick's hair, keeping his neck at an arch—travels downward, feeling over his belt and then undoing the latch in one quick moment. Dick blinks in surprise but almost immediately his pants are being pushed down, disconnected from the main part of his Nightwing costume.

"Slade," Dick gasps, and then stops. He isn't sure what he was going to say—a plea to stop or to continue—but words vanish from his brain as the mercenary's bare, calloused hand wraps around his cock.

"That's right," Slade purrs, "just keep saying my name like that, Richard."

His thumb runs over the head of Dick's cock, making the prince moan and arch up against him, sharp and needy. Slade's answering grin is nothing short of predatory.

Dick claws at the thick material over Slade's shoulders, his mind heavy and clouded. It's too much, it's not enough. He wants _more,_ he wants—

"Kiss me," he begs, hips jerking forward. He's always loved kissing. "Just—can you—_Slade-"_

"Anything you want, pretty bird," Slade tells him, voice rough with lust, and surges forward, once again capturing his mouth and kissing him passionately.

After far too long and not nearly long enough, Dick comes with a shout, Slade swallowing the noise down. The older man strokes him through it, his grip on his cock and his hair never faltering, not until Dick is spent and shaking with overstimulation.

Then, and only then, does Slade release him, pulling his pants back up for him and cinching his costume back together. He doesn't move away though, keeping Dick pressed between his much larger form and the wall of the chimney, and presses lingering kisses to Dick's neck and face.

Dick works on pulling himself together, breathing deeply, and can't bring himself to care about the fact that he's leaning into Slade's touch.

"I have to get back," Dick mutters after a long while, straightening slightly.

But Slade doesn't move.

Dick frowns. "Lord Wilson-"

The mercenary tuts at him. "Now, now, let's not backslide. What happened to you moaning my name in ecstasy?"

Dick's cheeks flame bright red and he averts his eyes, ashamed. _Stupid, stupid, stupid—_

Slade takes ahold of his chin, tilting his face back up and forcing him to meet his eyes. There's amusement in his gaze, yes, but also a reliable _steadiness_ that has Dick calming.

It's the same steadiness that he saw in Slade's eyes when he was ten and the lord found him hiding in a little alcove, overwhelmed by all the people attending his tenth birthday party. The same steadiness he saw when he was fifteen and his horse threw him far, a fall that would've broken a few bones if Slade hadn't caught him. The same steadiness that was there the first time Dick realized the elder man was very attractive.

"You okay in there, kid?" Slade murmurs.

Dick stares up into that piercing blue eye and wishes so very many things were different.

"I have to get back," Dick says again, voice hoarse.

Slade sighs and tucks a loose lock of hair behind Dick's ear, his fingers stroking gently down the side of Dick's face. Dick fights against the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch.

"I have an offer for you, pretty bird," Slade murmurs.

Dick blinks. Runs the words over in his head. Blinks again. "Sorry?"

Slade smirks slightly. "An _offer,_ Richard. A _proposition,_ if you will."

"And what might this proposition _be?"_ Dick asks on a sigh, suddenly feeling unbelievably tired. Slade's motives and verbal traps are hard enough to walk through on the best of days, and this is certainly _not_ the best of days.

"You want your life back, right? The title, your family, a chance to _choose_ whom you marry."

Dick refuses to feel hopeful. He absolutely refuses. "Yes. And?"

"What I propose is simple—you come away from Gotham with me for a year. You spend a year out there with me, and if at the end of it you still want to become _king,_ then I will tell your father that I retract my request for your hand in marriage."

_Don't feel hope, don't feel hope, don't feel hope—_

"So I won't see my brothers for a year?" Dick clarifies, because that's one thing that's stuck in is head.

"Yes," Slade confirms. "We'll be traveling far—the time it would take to come back to Gotham to visit would eat up half the year in and of itself. So for a year, you wouldn't see them. But if you _do_ choose to give up the throne at the end of the year, if you choose _me,_ we can still live in Gotham as our permanent residence, and thus you would see your brothers all the time."

Dick purses his lips. "You kill people," he points out. "Out there, when you're _working._ If I agree to this I won't just sit idly by and let you murder people for money."

"Nor would I expect you to," Slade replies immediately, but amusement curves his lips. "No killing contracts while you're with me, unless they're for the worst of the worst, how about that?"

Dick tries to look for further flaws in the bargain, but it seems fairly straightforward. A year to hold onto something he's spent sixteen preparing for? Easy as pie. He's going to come out on top of this little deal. There's no way Slade will actually convince him to give up his entire future, not with an out.

Right?

"Just one year?" Dick repeats. "And if I wish to go at the end of it, you'll let me go?"

"I'll let you go," Slade says firmly. "And I will tell your father he is free of his word."

Just one year. Dick can last a year, no problem. He just has to remember what's important. He'll be fine. He'll come out on top.

Dick raises his chin. "Alright," he declares. "I accept."

Slade simply smiles.

* * *

_"He'll hate you for this," the king says severely, staring at him over the dark wood of his desk._

_"Yes," Slade agrees, dipping his chin, "but he'll be mine all the same, and that's what really matters in the end, isn't it?"_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [With a heavy heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079503) by [Creativecookiecrumb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creativecookiecrumb/pseuds/Creativecookiecrumb)


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